The Eelmaid
by ICRepresentative
Summary: A dark fairytale, the unhappy ending to the POTC trilogy. Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Mermaid' and POTC crossover. Was recently sporked by heave ho, which makes me squee .


**Disclaimer**: POTC not mine. Hans Christian Anderson's The Little Mermaid isn't mine. Idea is, though.

**A/N**: This not your average Disney fairytale, folks. After seeing POTC2, this idea lodged itself in my skull and has been rattling around ever since. Some of you may know the OC I insert into POTC stories, but this story can be read alone. You don't really need to know her for this one. It's not canon with the rest of my stuff, either. It's just a free-based idea that wouldn't leave me alone. Just so you know.

This is basically post-_At World's End_... but only if everything goes to hell and no-one has a happy ending.

**edit - HOLY CRAP THIS FIC WAS SPORKED BY HEAVE HO. THIS IS AWESOME. Thankyou to everyone who left comments and constructive criticism. It's greatly appreciated. (Heave Ho (with an underscore between the words, there), is a livejournal community that stabs Mary Sue fics to death. It's awesome.**

* * *

It had been over a year since William Turner had died. His blood still stains the deck of the _Flying Dutchman_, a large carpet-sized shadow - tasselled with handprints and edged with smears - that remains stubborn, even with the pounding of the sea and time and a thousand men's hands scratching, clawing, scrubbing at the stain. Will Turner was always a stubborn boy. Even after death, this is still evident.

Yet he may not have been proud of his legacy had he known what had transpired soon after. Tia Dalma had faltered, wide-eyed; Barbossa had drawn back; Jack lost the grip on his sword; Elizabeth had screamed. And Davy Jones watched the son of Bootstrap Bill bleed to death on the deck of his ship, and reclaimed his still-beating heart from Will's fingers.

In a rare moment of charity, Davy Jones turned away from the lad and offered his attackers mercy: _flee, and we will not pursue_. Elizabeth had wanted to stay and fight for her dying love; Tia Dalma had raged, spittle and curses flying from her lips; Barbossa had halted, pained, but he and Jack Sparrow lowered their weapons and their eyes, and sounded the retreat.

And Davy Jones had watched, a cruel smile of satisfaction on his lips as the crew of the _Black Pearl_ turned and left the _Dutchman_ with heavy tread.

One remained, however. When all the crew went over the railing, back to the black-sailed ship, one of them knelt on the deck with dead eyes, staring at the cooling body of William Turner. A woman. Davy Jones remembered her - he'd seen her on the _Pearl_ many months ago. Her eyes had spoken volumes on the night Jack bargained for his soul, though not a word had passed her lips. Emotions had shone in her eyes, speaking her mind plainly though she said not a word.

Her eyes were silent now, and the words passing her lips were flat, hollow, and without redemption. "Was it ten years, Captain, or a hundred?"

Davy Jones - with his heart beating in his chest once more - had smiled, though the smile was hard and uncharitable. "Welcome to the crew, lass."

It did not make sense to him - now, or then - that this woman would give up hope with William's death. This woman was not William's fiancée - that had plainly been the raging blonde spitfire being hauled back to the _Pearl_. Yet this woman - she'd called herself Grey - radiated despair, tinged with that awful, damning hope: _I would do anything not to die…_ Not even Jack Sparrow's pleading could make her come with him. Though had been plain on that night months ago that she would have followed Jack Sparrow anywhere, she'd not follow him on the night Will Turner died. She'd decided. But Davy Jones could never quite understand why she'd do such a thing. Revenge, maybe. Grief, certainly. Perhaps it was penance of sorts. But what kind of person would willingly take it upon themselves to suffer in another person's place? Only a fool, in Jones' opinion.

Regardless, Grey had made her deal. One hundred years before the mast. And then, that deal concluded, she'd stared at William Turner's body, and at the slowly congealing spread of his honest blood.

That had been a year ago.f

All the men who swore an oath to serve aboard the _Dutchman_ lost their world, their humanity, bit by bit. The Grey girl was no exception. She lost her legs first, whether by choice, chance, or by sheer bloody-minded willpower. She kept her face and her body, though these retained a human likeness, but not a single human characteristic. Her skin turned a greenish-brown, and took on a rough sandpaper feel one way, a soft slimy velvet the other, though no one ever laid a hand on her if they wished to keep their hides intact. Her hair twisted into thick hanks of seaweed in which algae and mussels grew. Slits like dagger cuts carved into the side of her neck. Webs grew between her fingers, fingers which grew long and clawed. Her lips now carved from ear-to-ear, and her mouth was filled with tiny needles instead of teeth. The dark blackness of her pupils spread, leaving her eyes nothing but orbs as black as pitch. Or despair.

They called her the Eelmaid.

She had fallen faster into this curse than any sailor Davy Jones had ever seen. And there was not a word of complaint from her. Not a word. The only peculiarity - if it could be called such a thing - was that she was prone to stopping whatever she was doing, and standing, staring for hours on end, at the bloodstain that had been William Turner.

She is doing that once more when Davy Jones crosses the deck a year later. He stands by her side, stepping carefully so he does not tread on her tail. Grey's only sign of acknowledgement of her captain is the fluttering of the slits at her neck.

Davy Jones clears his throat and smiles to himself. He has prepared this cruelty, planned it carefully. It would be a shame not to enjoy it. "Miss Grey," he murmurs, "D'yeh regret makin' this deal t' serve on the _Dutchman_?"

"Don't you?" Her voice is a hiss, a backwards-drawn breath; her voice is rusty from misuse, and begins and ends with a hiss that a snake would be proud of.

Davy Jones smiles to himself. He will not be taunted today. "Would ye like t' be free?"

She gives that hissing-sigh again before - and after - she speaks. "Only ninety-nine years to go." Her tongue flickers over the razor-sharp needles of her teeth. She does not blink as she stares at the bloodstain - she has no eyelids with which to do so.

"What if I could give ye the chance t' go free… today?"

Her entire body goes rigid, an impressive feat for someone who is a tail from the waist down. "What?"

"We have heard," Davy Jones is never one to mince words, "That the _Black Pearl_ was headin' for Montserrat." She tilts her head but does not take her eyes from the shadow on the deck: a 'go on' motion. "We're just offshore." Davy Jones folds his one good arm over his ruined one, savouring the cruelty-bitter taste of these next words. "If ye kill him, I will free ye from your bargain. The rest of your term will be void."

The tip of Grey's tail flips back and forth, slapping on the deck, and the fins along the edge of it shiver; other than that, the woman shows no emotion. "Kill him?" She rasps.

"Aye," Davy Jones smiles, forever and eternally cruel, even with his heart restored to him. "Kill Jack Sparrow."

"No." She says immediately, then frowns, turning her face to the captain, away from the bloodstain. "I would be… free?" She does not believe him.

"Aye."

Grey remains silent a long time, staring at Davy Jones. Jones smiles, patiently. Waiting for her to make the next move.

"I loved him." She says this without inflection, as though it were a fact about some other girl in a story a long, long time ago. "I loved Jack Sparrow."

"He betrayed you."

A thin white film - the vestigial remains of Grey's eyelids - close over her black orbs. "He betrayed everyone. But I still loved him." She stares at the bloodstain again, then looks shrewdly at the captain. "Why do you still want him dead?"

Jones smiles. "I never forget a debt owed. And I never forgive my enemies." Grey seems to accept this half-truth she's been fed. Davy Jones puts an arm around her bony shoulders. "Think about it, lass. You'd be free from your promise. Ye could go out and live your life."

Grey holds up her hands, and stares at them. "Like this?" She makes a coughing noise - _ka ka ka_ _gru-ka_ - and Davy realises she is laughing. He's never heard her laugh before. "No, thankyou, captain."

Davy reaches out a hand and places it atop her head. "Then perhaps… like this?"

There was some enchantment placed in his heart. That was how it was taken from him in the first place; how his life continued on without it beating within his chest; how he remains captain of the _Dutchman_; how the _Dutchman_ and its captain remain as one.

The _Dutchman_ may take humanity from its crew, but that humanity can also be restored.

The black bleeds backwards into the centre of Grey's eyes. That is the first thing Davy notices. But Grey notices much more. She cries out, alarmed… and then joyous, glad. There are tears rolling down her flawless cheeks, tears from beautiful brown eyes. She touches her hair, her lips, her neck, her chest; she stares in awe at her toes, her ankles, her knees. She is human again. Human, and beautiful.

Davy Jones smiles, and takes his hand from off of her head. Grey shrieks and hisses as she loses all she momentarily gained. She is ugly and non-human again, and she is terrified of herself once more. She stumbles back, losing her balance and tripping over her own tail. She falls to the deck and gives a keening cry - she seems to finally realise the magnitude of what she agreed to.

And thus, she will agree to anything, even a Dfevil's dowry, in order to get back what she gave away.

"I will free ye," Davy Jones purrs, standing over her, "And restore ye to your former glory. All ye have t' do is kill Captain Jack Sparrow."

She looks up at the captain, eyes greedy. "Yeesss," she hisses, her mouth parting wider than humanly possible, and her fangs glint terribly. "Yes. Yes, I will."

The captain smiles. Everyone has their price. Grey, who forsook her humanity long ago, is no match against Davy Jones' understanding of desperate hearts. With the right leverage even the earth itself can be moved. Noble hearts are no exception to that rule. A year in hell coupled with a glimpse of heaven has turned this once-honest woman into the monster she resembles. And Jones is enjoying himself immensely.

It is only by inflicting cruelty on others that he can forget the cruelty inflicted on him.

He hands Grey a knife. "Ye've 'til sundown. If ye haven't killed him by then… ye'll head straight for yore maker." _Kill him or die, Grey_.

Grey writhes upright, eyes shining and fangs bared. She is not listening to the conditions. She is thinking only of having legs again, of being human again. "Yes, yes, yes… kill Jack Sparrow." She takes the knife, slithers to the railing, and dives into the sea.

* * *

As she swims, thoughts and memories from all her life come back to her, tainted by Davy Jones' cruel, taunting promise. What had once been attractive about Jack Sparrow became faults; faults became reason - excuse - enough to slip the dagger between his ribs. All those teasing smiles he had ever given her became mocking snarls. All the times he'd ignored her were insults to her person, insults which it was high-time were repaid. Everything about him… deserved to die a second time.

"Kill Jack Sparrow," she hisses, a trail of bubbles following her as she snakes through the ocean. "Kill him and be free."

Montserrat has many ports, but Grey swims fast with that tail of hers. She soon finds that ship, that ship with black sails. She floats in the harbour, watching from the water's edge with those black, soulless eyes of hers, watching the ebb and flow of humanity. Soon, she sees him.

There seems to be less of a swagger to his walk - it's more of a slump now - but there is no mistaking him. Grey hisses, and she writhes in anticipation. Yet something holds her in the water. Though the knife is hold and heavy in her hand, it is nothing compared to the sudden heaviness of her heart.

"Kill Jack Sparrow," she reminds herself, "And be free."

Already, the implications of her decision are coming crashing down on her.

What kind of freedom could it possibly be?

She watches, silently, as Jack Sparrow sways along the dockside. He seems to be alone, when out of the shadows a woman - a blonde - rushes to his side and kisses him fiercely. Jack kisses her back, and holds her tight in his arms.

All pangs of doubt and indecision are gone. Grey gives a keening wail, which she quickly smothers by sinking beneath the waves.

He still hadn't changed. She'd known it, all along, that the pirate had been incorrigible. But she'd loved him, hadn't she, for all his faults. More the fool, her. Jack had only eyes for women who had fire in them. Women like Elizabeth Swann.

And now that Will was cold and dead, forgotten but for the bloodstain on the deck of the _Dutchman_, Jack had claimed Will's bride as his own.

"Kill Jack Sparrow," Grey froths, her bitter words rising to the surface in oily bubbles of hatred. "For revenge. For Will. And for me."

She lifts her head above the surface of the waves and watches as Jack and the blonde walk down to a tavern, and step inside.

Her face is disfigured with hatred and her tail lashes the water. But she waits in the harbour for night to fall. Waiting for an opportunity.

* * *

A man prompted by his drunken friends to swim out as far as he can, leaps into the water with his coat on. Grey waits until he is close enough then drags him under, crushing him in the grip of her tail and pulling the coat from him. The man's eyes are wide with fear and his mouth opens in a scream which quickly drains him of all his life. Grey doesn't care.

The stars shine bright ahead when she first sets foot on shore, buttoning the coat around her.

She takes a moment to orient herself - she has not used her legs in a year, and is a little shaky. She finds the tavern, and steps inside, leaving a trail of seawater and footprints behind her. Men who would normally approach a woman with her face avoid her. There is something dangerous - and inhuman - about her. Grey is not aware of the gradual silence that is descending upon the tavern. She had a job to do. She climbs the stairs, and searches every ramshackle room until she finds him.

Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow.

Grey stares at him for a very long time. He is asleep. So is the woman by his side. The fact that the blonde is not Elizabeth only serves to infuriate Grey more. _So what happened to her, Jack? Did you love and leave Miss Swann, just as you did me? You prefer the company of whores that much?_ That there are grey threads through his hair and grief-lines around his eyes says nothing to Grey. She sees only the man that once was, and the man that Davy's promise had made him. The man who broke her heart, and the man that ruined her life. She pulls the knife, and readies it in her pale white hand.

"I'll be free," she murmurs, her voice still rasping, "And have my revenge."

Jack stirs and opens his eyes. Grey freezes. Jack lifts his head, eyes wide in recognition. Grey backs away, her heart thudding beneath the sopping coat and her pale human skin. Jack jumps out of bed, forgetting the whore, reaching for Grey. Grey makes a choking sound in her throat.

Jack says her name.

The knife clatters to the floor as the girl turns and flees. Her saltwater footprints - nearly dried on the tavern floor - are renewed as the woman pushes through the crowd with wild eyes and makes for the shore. She can hear him shouting behind her, calling, pleading, so she keeps running. But he way is uncertain. Her eyes are filled with tears.

Night is ending - she waited too long. Already the dark night sky is lightening, and the stars winking out of sight. She runs for the shore, to put the sea between herself and the pirate.

His arm catches her, and holds her back. She struggles to free herself, but he pulls her into his arms and sobs into her hair.

"I thought you were dead," he murmurs. "You're alive, you're alive…"

Grey cries and holds Jack Sparrow, a fierce embrace that she did not have the courage for before she was cursed. Before she chose to be cursed. Her twisted memories straighten themselves out. She loved Jack Sparrow, and she loves him still.

He pulls back and looks into her eyes, silenced by relief and tears, and smiles at her. But Grey cannot muster a tear in return.

"Kill…" she croaks, "Or die…" She gingerly frees herself from Jack's embrace and backs down to the shoreline. The waves crash against the shore, sounding like the whisper of Davy Jones. _Kill Sparrow. Kill Sparrow_.

The tears are still rolling down her face when the saltwater washes away her feet.

Jack staggers, as though stabbed, as he sees Grey transform before his eyes. There is fear there, oh yes. Fear which makes Grey cry all the more, because she too is disgusted with herself. But the pity in his eyes is what breaks her heart.

The sun is coming. The sun is coming.

"I can't kill you!" She cries. "I can't!"

* * *

Jack Sparrow loved telling stories. Especially ones that pertained to him. But he only told this story once: to the crew who had known Grey, who had mourned her in garb of black and many, many tears. To her friends and family.

As the sun rises over Montserrat, the Eelmaid freezes, eyes and fanged mouth wide in alarm. With the waves hissing around her tail, she gives one last keening cry.

And her scales fall from around her, sloughing off, leaving her skin pale and white underneath. The mussels drop out of her hair, which loses its algal sheen. Her neck heals; her gills vanish. Her hands lose both the webs and their ferocity, becoming soft and ladylike. Her tail shortens and splits in half, giving her back her legs.

She lifts her eyes to Jack, and smiles with small, pale red lips. There is an apology in those tear-filled brown eyes of her. Regret. Sorrow. A plea for forgiveness. But there is also a smile. She hadn't killed Jack Sparrow. And she is free.

This next part of the story is the hardest for Jack to tell.

The minute sunlight brushes her skin, and she fades like seafoam. One moment she isthere, the next she is not. The waves wash away her footprints, and an old coat lies stranded on the sand. But of Grey, there is no sign.

She's gone.


End file.
